Path of Least Resistance
by A.J. Breton
Summary: Sometimes the most obvious conclusions are the hardest ones to come to. Characters come to terms with thier relationships. GCR, GSR, WCR. Angst.
1. GearHeads and Bugmen

**Path of Least Resistance.**

CSI fan-fiction

A.J. Breton

Summary: Sometimes the most obvious conclusions are the hardest ones to come to.

Grissom-Catherine friendship, likely romance in future chapters, references to GSR and WCR. Angst. Mature for sex/violence/drugs, especially in future chapters.

A/N: I am starting this story while I am in the middle of a different story, that one GSR-angst, I hate to do that, but once I got the notion for this story my brain wouldn't let it go. I have no idea what Catherine's maiden name was, so I made one up.

**Big time thanks to the members of csifanbasecentral yahoo group, they really were incredibly helpful to me in getting the back-story of these characters, and some other ideas, too.**

**Please Review, the more feedback more quickly you're likely to get an update.**

* * *

**Ch. 1: Gear-Heads and Bugmen in the Dusty Vegas Night.**

**Las Vegas. 1987.**

This wasn't what he normally did on his nights off. Normally he'd be at work anyway, reading his journals, or using some o the lab space to document the latest observable changes in the newest generation of cockroaches he was breeding. Days were spent reading, tidying up his already inhumanly clean townhouse and occasionally sleeping, nodding off as he typically did on his couch with a documentary on the TV. That was "normal" for Gil Grissom. But this was a new town, a vital, exciting town, or at least that's what the brochures said.

"You really ought to get out some." Jim Brass had advised him. When Brass had gotten his hands on some comp tickets to this classic hot-rod show, he'd insisted on giving one to Gil.

Jim Brass, Gil supposed, was almost everything he, himself, was not. Brass was warm, outgoing and had an air of leadership about him. He often played the role of "dumb-Jersey-kid" but in the few short months that Grissom had been working in Vegas he'd come to realize that Brass had a sharp intellect, remarkable observation skills and was much better read and educated than he typically led on.

Gil stopped in front of a Chevy of some sort. He liked cars well enough, but he just wasn't much of a gear-head. He did admire the graphic paint job on the car, red-orange flames, sparkled and glittering, pinstriped in flame blue.

"That one sure is a beauty, huh?" A smooth voice sidled up to him. As was his nature, Gil said nothing, moved slightly to the side.

"It's hard to find a painter who can do those old-school, crab-claw flames justice." Gil frowned. This man was still talking…to him. He slid the stranger a glance. He was tall and lean with dark, slicked hair wearing jeans and simple, rumbled black t-shirt. Catching Grissom's glance the man's face broke into a disarming grin. Grissom's first thought was that if he'd been wearing a blazer, he'd look like a used car salesman.

A sweaty palm shot in Gil's direction.

"Hey. Ed Willows."

Grissom considered the man's hand. He wasn't one who appreciated casual conversation, it was casual, and therefore, non-essential. He'd always felt more comfortable in his thoughts than he'd ever felt exchanging them with others. He supposed that was why he worked primarily with the dead and not the living. He nearly blew this "Ed" off and would have if not for the rigid training in manners his mother had indoctrinated him with at an early age. Annoying or not, this man had offered his hand. Despite himself, Grissom took the extended appendage.

"Grissom."

Ed shook the hand vigorously before dropping his own back to his side.

"You big into Chevy's?" Grissom took his time answering.

"No."

"Oh, a Ford man?"

"No."

"Huh?"

Gil sighed. "I got free tickets. I'm really not into cars that much." With that, which was more of an explanation that he thought was even necessary, Gil moved on to the next car in the line.

"Freebies, huh? You work for the city or a casino?" Gil looked over at Ed incredulously. Why was this man still here? Worse yet, why was he still talking?

"It's not important." Grissom could feel his voice tightening from frustration. He forced a breath, now Gilbert, he thought, be patient, his mother's voice from when he was very little running through his head…

"Oh, the city." Gil stared. Ed continued, "If you worked for a casino you'd be telling me about it, trying to get me to come there." Gil doubted that, but kept silent. He moved down the line. Manners or not, he didn't want to talk and this fellow couldn't seem to understand that.

"You're not much of a conversationalist, are you Gridson?" Ed continued to walk beside him.

"It's Grissom. No, I'm not."

"Me, I've always been told that I don't know when to shut up, I think I was born talking," he chuckled, Grissom didn't. "Anyway, this city is likely to be hard on you; it's a people-driven place. What part of California are you from?"

Gil stopped short. Did he have his biography stapled to his back? Still frustrated he should've just kept walking, but now his curiosity was piqued.

"How did you know I was from California?" Ed grinned.

"I deal with lots of West-Coasters in my business, music, you have an accent." Gil frowned even deeper.

"No I don't."

"Yeah, you really do, man." He shrugged, "So where, L.A.?"

Grissom was still frustrated, but he felt himself being pulled into a conversation, whether he wanted it or not. "Most recently L.A., but originally from Marina Del Ray."

Ed, it turned out, was from Vegas. He worked in a recording studio. He was a gear-head who when he was 16 wanted nothing more than to own a body shop and Mustang. He liked to gamble on Thursday nights and usually ate lunch at a strip club about a half-mile off the main Strip. "Great burgers there," he explained, "the coffee is always fresh and the girls mostly blonde."

In a strange and completely unexpected way, Grissom found himself actually almost liking this guy.

* * *

**Las Vegas. 1979.**

Catherine looked out the window of her mom's tiny trailer. The windows were dirty and tape covered the cracks in the panes. It was sunset and the orange glow of the fading light diffused across the grime. Tonight. Tommy would pick her up tonight; she'd finally be out of this shit-hole.

Mom was in her bedroom with the TV on much too loud, it was easy to ignore the calls of bill collectors if you never heard the phone ring.

Leaving shouldn't be hard. If mom wasn't already passed out, she would be soon, and then Tommy just had to pull up and….

"CATHY!" The 16 year old whirled around, staring into the blurred blue eyes of her mother. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Ya think Prince Charming's gonna ride up on his damn horse and sweep you away? It don't work like that, honey." Catherine just sulked away from the window and flopped down on the couch.

"Turn those lights off; I don't want Dave knowin' we're home."

She shouldn't have spoken, Catherine knew better, but before she could control herself, "He can probably hear your fucking TV blaring…"

SMACK

The slap was quick, hard. Lilly leaned over her daughter, "Don't talk back to me, girl. Just do like I tell you."

Chided but fuming Catherine turned off the lights, but felt compelled to respond.

"Dave said he'd wait another two weeks for his money, I don't know why you're so worried…"

"Oh Dave said that, did he? When? Before or after you slid into his backseat?"

"MOM! I told you, Dave offered me a ride to the grocery, that's why I was in his car."

"Yeah, I'm sure, and he just offers to give me more time to pay him outta the kindness of his heart? Men aren't like that, you little whore. You musta done a good job on him."

Catherine hated herself for crying, but tiny drops of liquid anger dripped from her eyes. Her voice choked as she spat back, "I hate you! I can't wait to leave this place!"

* * *

**Las Vegas Crime Lab, 1989.**

Grissom realized quite suddenly that he had no specimens starting with the letter "J," which seemed quite odd to him. He mentally ticked off what appropriate species he might be able to acquire to fill that void.

"Griss." Brass's voice snapped his head up. "Inventorying your cockroach collection again?"

"Again? I haven't inventoried these in months."

"No, you were doing this a couple weeks ago."

"Those weren't my roaches; those were my 'beetles-of-the-world' collection." It was only then that Grissom notice the thin, mortified looking redhead beside Jim. Catherine met Grissom's eyes.

Before, in the hallway Jim had warned her, "Don't let Gil freak you out, he's kind of…well, he's…well, he's just Grissom. But he's the best at this job, the guy I'd want investigating my murder."

At the moment, in the darkness of 'Grissom's Lair' Jim was giving introductions.

"Grissom, this is our newest CSI to join the Graveyard shift, Catherine Harrisen. Catherine, this is our resident bugman, Gil Grissom."

Catherine wasn't sure if she should step forward or not, Grissom made no attempt to stand at his desk or shake her hand, he did offer a slight, "Nice to meet you." And then dropped his head back down to the disgusting little creatures pinned to cardboard, his beetles, or roaches, or whatever.

Brass rolled his eyes and turned apologetically to Catherine. "You will have to excuse Griss; he's not like the other boys." He dropped his voice to a stage whisper, his eyes gleaming with humor, "You see, he was raised as an infant in a small, wooden box with no human contact. He learned interpersonal skills from daddy-long-leg spiders." Catherine couldn't help but laugh. She looked at Grissom, who for his part did break a smile, thought it was only a small one. She considered him for a moment. He wasn't half bad looking when he smiled.

In a slightly more conversational tone than he'd had before, which in the near future Catherine would learn was about as conversational as he got, Grissom addressed Brass while giving a nod to Catherine.

"Did you get her blood yet?" Brass shook his head. Catherine frowned, had she heard that right?

"My blood? Did you ask if I gave my blood? Like for what, a drug test?" She'd already taken the prerequisite drug test to work in the county lab, and passed it, with a silent prayer of thanks.

"No," Grissom responded calmly, almost melodically, "We need about a pint." Her eyes widened.

"What do you need my blood for?"

His face might best have been described as philosophic, "Oh, so many reasons…"

* * *

**Tommy's Place. 1980.**

"Don't tell me what you want, you fucking bitch!" SMACK "What the fuck do you need a job for? What the hell do you think you're gonna get hired to do? You wanna be a whore?" SMACK "That's about all you're good at, honey. You ain't got a nickel's worth of smarts in that head of yours," SMACK "the only job you'll ever get is on your back." SMACK, this one backhanded. "Is that what you fucking want? Just 'cause I let my buddy Jack have a taste of you, you think you can go off and start fucking other guys?"

Braced with her back pressed against the corner of the room, sobbing, frantically wiping her face, now a smear of mascara, tears and blood, "No, no…I'm s-sorry…sorry…I didn't mean…I know money's tight…I just thought…"

SMACK

"Nobody here gives a rat's ass what you think, slut!"

He stood up straight and glared at the girl for a moment. An idea seemed to come to him and his hands went to his belt. As he took it off and started unfastening his jeans, he spoke again. "You're lucky you're pretty." Hand pressed hard on her shoulder, she dropped to her knees, and she knew what he wanted, what would make the beating stop. "I gotta friend in town who owns a club. I'll get him to give you a job."


	2. Death of Love

**Path of Least Resistance**

A/N: in ch.1 I used the wrong last name for Catherine, I use the correct name here, sorry about the mix up. I know this took a long time to update, sorry about that, but as slow as I am, I won't abandon a story. R/R, please.

Spoilers for the whole series, especially Weeping Willows, Nesting Dolls.

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**Ch. 2: Death of Love**

Las Vegas Crime Lab, 2005.

Sara was on suspension. If the confrontation had been in an office, or the break-room, or in some other more-or-less private area of the lab, that would've been fine, but it hadn't. It had been right in the middle of the goddamned hallway where every last one of Catherine's peers, superiors and subordinates could hear and see. It had been humiliating and shocking and now Catherine was pissed.

Ecklie had ordered Gil to fire her. Catherine knew he wouldn't, not Sara, not his girl. Catherine dug her nails into her palms. That son-of-a-bitch. Mr. I-don't-let-personal-stuff-interfere-with-my-work. Bullshit. Anything short of murder and Sara Sidle had a knight in shining armor to guarantee her job.

"It's taken care of." That was all Gil said.

Taken care of. Catherine desperately wanted to take care of things herself. Sara had a brilliant mind, and Catherine had dealt with enough of her own emotional baggage to recognize someone who carried her own, and she figured Sara was loaded down with some pretty heavy stuff. None of that, however, gave that little bitch the right to pop off to her that way. If she hadn't of been so caught off guard she might have even slapped her.

_SMACK. Don't talk back to me, girl. Just do like I tell you._

Catherine let out a heavy sigh. Coming back to reality she looked around the locker room. She'd been standing in front of the open door of her locker for too long, it was time to leave, she had to go get Lindsey. The metallic bang reverberated in the cold room as she stalked out.

* * *

Cindy's Diner, 1990.

"Really, Grissom, I can pay for my own dinner."

"No, no, I insist, Catherine, I'll pay."

She acquiesced and let him place a crisp twenty dollar bill on the hand written tab. Dinner, or breakfast, or whatever you wanted to call having the meatloaf special at nine-thirty in the morning, had become a bit of a habit for Catherine Flynn and her co-worker, Grissom. She watched him as he tidied up the table, putting the salt and pepper back in their spots, pushing and adjusting them, stacking the unused sugar packs, sorted by color. Not for the first time since she'd started working with Grissom, Catherine wondered if he had some form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The man was obscenely neat and orderly. His penchant for precision had irritated her at first, but now she had come to accept his eccentricities, and found them, in a way, endearing. She had come from enough chaos in her life to appreciate a certain amount of predictability.

"Thank you. Next time, I'll get the bill."

"Fair enough."

They waited in comfortable silence for the waitress to come and break the twenty when Catherine noticed a tall, dark haired man in a leather jacket approaching from behind Grissom. Her eyes narrowed, he seemed oddly familiar.

"Griss!" The man clapped a hand on Gil's shoulder. Catherine could see him flinch, Gil Grissom didn't particularly care to be touched. The familiar looking stranger was grinning broadly at Grissom, but kept sliding his eyes back to Catherine in a way she found a bit unsettling.

"Oh, Ed. I didn't see you come in."

"It's been forever, Grissom. What are you up to? Still working for the cops, right?"

Gil frowned, it had been several months since he'd seen Ed Willows, not 'forever.' And technically speaking he worked for the county, not specifically for the police…he was about to open his mouth to respond when Ed turned toward Catherine.

"Please, let me introduce myself, Eddie Willows."

Grissom scowled slightly, Ed only referred to himself as 'Eddie' when he was hitting on a woman, which he did frequently. Normally Gil didn't concern himself with things that Ed did, but the idea of him schmoozing up to his Catherine…

"Catherine Flynn." She shook Eddie's hand.

"You work with Grissom?"

"Yes, at the crime lab."

"I have to say, Catherine, you look very familiar to me. Might we have met somewhere before?"

"I don't know where."

"Hmmm, man, you do look familiar."

"It may be just one of those things." Grissom offered, for some strange reason he didn't like not being apart of this conversation.

"No…no, I do know you from….somewhere." Eddie looked like he was concentrating.

The waitress came and took the bill, leaving the change behind. Grissom got up and Catherine followed suit, not particularly caring for the way this Eddie fellow kept looking at her. It reminded her to much of…

"The French Palace!" Eddie exclaimed.

"What?" Catherine's face went slack.

"You worked at the Palace, didn't you?"

"Uh, yeah, I did."

Ed looked far too pleased with himself, Grissom thought. Catherine had still been dancing when she started at the crime lab, he had been the one who convinced her to give that up so she could focus on building a career as a CSI.

"Cat. You're Cat, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well, I don't go by that anymore."

"Oh, sure, I understand." Eddie seemed to notice for the first time that Catherine and Grissom were standing up with their jackets on. "Oh, you guys aren't leaving, are you? I'd love to catch up with you, Griss."

"Not today, Ed, it's been a long night."

"Alright, but we gotta meet up sometime, get a beer."

"Sure." Grissom waited politely for Catherine to walk past him toward the door, she paused to nod at Eddie.

"Nice meeting you." It really wasn't but if he was a friend of Grissom's she supposed she should be nice to him.

"Same here, hey whenever Griss and I go for a drink, you should come to, I'd love to get to know you better."

It was an obvious pick-up, and she knew better than to encourage it, but there was something sincere and even a little charming about his face…

"I'd like that too, see you Eddie."

Grissom followed her outside to the parking lot and got into his car without saying goodbye.

* * *

Marina Del Ray, 1972.

Sandra's skin was darker than his, smooth and soft to the touch. She smelled of salt water and sand, as did he. This was the first time he had touched her this way, his hands running down her bare sides from the her bikini top to the sparse bands at her hips. Her mouth hovered mere inches away from his, she leaned closer and he saw her eyes flutter closed.

His palms felt damp and his mouth felt dry, he'd never kissed a woman before, and Sandra was…well she was…she was beautiful. This stretch of beach was about a mile from his house but was fairly secluded and somewhere the back of his brain produced paranoid images of his mother coming around the rocky outcropping to their side and finding them, like this, touching, kissing…

It was quick, dry and awkward. Lips met and withdrew, hearts pounded and breaths gasped in the space between them before Sandra slid her hands up Gil's back and took a handful of his thick, mop-like curls drawing him in for a kiss that was deeper, longer.

The sun set slowly over the beach casting long shadows over the sand. The seagulls squawked in the distance as sixteen-year-old Gil Grissom slid a tentative finger under the band at Sandra's hip. He pulled gently, easing it down only a centimeter before pausing. Her hands caressed his neck then slid to the waist band of his long swimming trunks, her fingernails teased at his belly button then brushed across the elastic. That was all she had to do and he was hard. He blushed at his obvious condition. Sandra smiled.

"You want this, don't you Gilbert?" She cooed. Gil swallowed hard and nodded, finding it impossible to form words with her hands sliding over the cool fabric of his swimwear down his thighs. "It's important to me that this is something you want."

"It is." He croaked, and then whimpered a little as she gave him a soft squeeze, rubbing her warm palm against his erection. She let go of him and reached up to her bikini top, in seconds it came free and she was pulling his hands to cup her breasts. She moaned and leaned into him.

"Come with me," she took his hands and led him to the blanket by the rocks they had laid out earlier, she laid him down on his back and began kissing his chest, Gil started to tremble and thought he might explode soon. "Remember," she cautioned as she slowly pulled his trunks down, "no one can know about this, they won't understand. This is our secret."

"I know…"Gil breathed, then sucked in a hard breath at the sensations she was causing him. The sky deepened to a dark violet as Gil Grissom lost his virginity on a beach in Marina Del Ray, to Sandra Maculay, the local high school chemistry teacher.

* * *

Las Vegas, 2001.

"Baseball is a beautiful sport."

"Right. Since when do you care about beauty?"

"Since I met you."

His comment left her speechless, which was half the reason he said it. There was something about Sara…well more than something…there was history. She hadn't been working at the Crime Lab that long but their old habits had taken no time at all to re-establish themselves. He knew she wanted things to go back to what they had been. To have what they had before. Gil wasn't sure that was possible anymore, a part of him wanted that, badly, but just as much as he was attracted to the notion of giving himself up to her, again, he was also repulsed by it…not by her, she was gorgeous as ever…but by the thought of trying to reclaim, re-establish that 'thing' they had.

Lightning doesn't strike twice, does it?

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Grissom's townhouse, 1995.

The knocking at his front door had been frantic and insistent. He knew who it was before he even reached the door. Catherine Willows stumbled in without an explanation, little Lindsey wrapped in a blanket and tucked close to her chest. Gil flipped the lights on as Catherine moved to the sofa and sat, rocking the little girl. The front door was locked and the coffee pot started when Gil sat on his coffee table in front of his friend and took one of her trembling hands in his.

"Where did he hit you?" He asked calmly, studying her face.

"He didn't, not this time, I left before it got that far." Her voice was still shaky from the tears.

"Good." He was oddly proud of her for that, now, he thought, if you'd just leave the son-of-a-bitch…

"I'm s-sorry," she choked, "I keep dragging you into this mess of ours…" he cut her off.

"Don't be sorry, Catherine, you know my door is always open for you and Lindsey."

She fell silent, rocking gently, still holding her daughter in one arm and Gil's hand with the other. When the coffee was finished she watched him get up and fix them both a cup. When he came back she put Lindsey down on the cushion next to her, settling the sleepy child down. Gil sat on the other side of the girl and lightly brushed her light, blonde hair with his fingertips.

"She's a beautiful girl."

"She's my life." Catherine sipped her coffee, light cream, no sugar, Grissom always made it right. "You know Eddie is going to call here, looking for me."

"Yes." There was a long pause before he spoke again. "He'll rant at me then he'll want to talk to you."

"I know."

"He'll say he's sorry, and beg you to come back home."

"Yes."

"And you'll go, won't you?"

"He thinks I'm having an affair with you."

"That's not true."

"It doesn't matter."

"The truth always matters."

"No. It doesn't."

"You'll go back, won't you?"

"Yes." She sighed. "He loves Lindsey, and maybe somewhere inside he still loves me."

Gil felt an emotion he couldn't quite describe fester at the pit of his stomach. _Loves you? _He thought_, loves you enough to hit you, to bruise you, to humiliate you? What happens, _he thought_, when Lindsey is walking and talking and getting into trouble, would Eddie love his daughter the same way he loved his wife? _

He sat, looking down at the little girl, quietly sipping his coffee.

He almost said it. Stay. It was in the back of his mouth longing to spring forward.

Stay.

But his mouth stayed clamped shut and if Catherine noticed his hands slightly shaking, she didn't mention it.

* * *

Crime Lab, 2005.

"I guess that's why I don't go out."

Catherine watched him walk away, feeling for all the world like she'd just been smacked. Everything she'd been through, being assaulted, treated like a whore, humiliated in front of her co-workers when she had done _nothing wrong._ The one man in the world she had come to rely on to be non-judgmental, to just accept what and who she was…she gritted her teeth and anger seeped up into her chest.

_You don't go out because you're an emotional amputee. Because you're a coward and can't stand the thought of putting yourself in a position you can't control. Life is messy, life is dangerous, but Christ, what's the point in living at all if you only exist in your tiny, little self-contained world?_

She turned on her heel and stomped off down the hall biting back on her anger as she left the lab.

Gil sat behind his desk after walking away from Catherine in the hall. He slammed his files down bitterly and stared at the closed door, mentally berating himself for his cold treatment of her. He'd been terrified by what happened to her, but it was her life, her choice. What responsibility did he have? None. Catherine was a grown woman, who could live her own life.

Without him.

She wasn't naive and she wasn't dumb. She had a certain taste when it came to socializing and in men and that was her right. She had a right to pursue those things.

Without him.

A few lines from Baudelaire floated through his memory…

_One night, a night of mystic blue and rose_

_A look will pass, supreme, from me to you_

_Like a long sob, laden with long adieux…_

He shook his head, closing his eyes, shutting out the prose. He didn't want to think about French poets, he didn't want to think about Catherine, he just didn't want to think anymore.

--------------------------

TBC……..

A/N: the Baudelaire poem was a snippet of "Death of Love" from his _Fleur de Mal_ collection.


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